Patient and Kind
by lemondrops154
Summary: Waiting, waiting, waiting; watching as everything outside of him changed even as he remained still, marking time by the metronome of his heartbeats. Slash warning included.


**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me; neither does the poetry I have referred to.

**Warnings:** Is intended to be a slash fic.

**Request:** Please review. It's the greatest form of encouragement there is.

* * *

**The Rainy Day**

~ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary. 5

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary. 10

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary. 15

* * *

**Some Days Must Be Dark and Dreary**

He sat, his mind wandering through the blossoms, some full and shining and bright, some shy and curled in on themselves. It would have been better, they had said, if _he_ had died and left no trace of his stain on the world. And yet. And yet. Yet, Harry held on, finger nails scraping on the edges of life, wanting to hold on with everything in his being because he had hope. He wanted the greens to be fresh again, as they had been in the memory he carried with him. That one shining brilliant moment that made him hold on, fingers scraped and bleeding, the howling on the inside unabated as he sat there staring into the morning sunlight. As good an abyss as any he had ever seen, sensed. He sat there, staring at the flowers, wondering when next he would get to see that precious face they had wanted to take away from him, hold that warmth in his arms, kiss cheeks and the corners of lips as they turned up in a smile. He sat there, waiting for his return or for oblivion, whichever came first.

* * *

"He'll be back, Mione. You'll see. He promised. He said he would be back, and he's never broken a promise to me before. On a day when the sky is dreary and dark, and it seems like the sun will never come back, he'll show up. He promised."

"Oh, Harry."

* * *

The earth was crying again today. London. That happened frequently here. He found solace in the fact that he wasn't alone in his grief as his clothes soaked through and the shivering began anew. It seemed fitting that someone should be shedding tears when he could no longer find any more of his own. He shivered and hunched his shoulders and watched droplets drip down his glasses, now slowly, now in a torrent. He sat motionless in the ceaseless wind, waiting. Always waiting.

* * *

"Harry, come on, mate. It's been bloody months. How long are you going to wait? Everyone except for you has accepted that the fucking ferret isn't coming back. Let it go."

* * *

'_Love is patient, love is kind._'

He didn't know where he had heard the words, but they had stayed with him. It was fear that was his paralysis. It neither let him move forwards nor backtrack. It held him in place. Suspended. No proof against rationality, fear was a pure emotion, and he lived in fear now.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

An irrational fear and the ever-present constant longing his only companions.

Waiting, waiting, waiting; watching as everything outside of him changed even as he remained still, marking time by the metronome of his heartbeats.

He wondered when he would again feel joy in anything, feel that joy race through his blood, excite his heart, wake up his mind.

That was an empty question to ask himself though. He knew when. He was awarded a small taste of it every time he glimpsed a flash of the sun glinting off blonde locks when someone passed him by in the park. Before his eyes caught up with his heart. Then, he would always whisper the same words to himself.

'_Not yet, not yet, not yet._'

* * *

"Harry dear, look I've made your favorite, treacle tart. Come now, here's a nice generous portion. I don't know how you're managing in that large empty house of yours. There's more than enough room at the Burrow if you wanted to stay here, dear. There now, you must eat if you want to keep your strength up. Boys always have such large appetites, and I should know. I always say..."

* * *

He was so cold. The sun was warm on his back, but he was so cold. Always so cold. He didn't think he even remembered what it was like to be properly warm any more. He didn't really care to remember either. He idly examined his wrists as the fingers of one hand traced the bones that protruded. He wondered how much strength it would take to snap one of his wrists. Dr- _He_ had always said that his wrists were bloody ridiculously weak. He had said a lot of things. Had wondered when Harry would learn to dress himself properly. Harry glanced down at the day old t-shirt he was wearing. Completely inadequate for the weather, but he was so cold all the time, and it didn't seem to make a difference how he dressed. It was like he carried the cold inside him now, waiting for his own personal sun to come back to him. Always waiting.


End file.
